Got Plans?
by Nicole Berman
Summary: C/S. Friendship can be the most powerful aphrodisiac; will it seduce Sara enough for her to move past Hank's betrayal? EMAIL ME for the NC-17 version. Do not PM me, I can't do anything with a PM.


Title: "Got Plans?"

Authors: Nicole Berman

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Classification: Femslash, Sara/Catherine, slight angst

Rated: NC-17 for the bow-chicka-bow-wow (twice!).

Summary: Trust is the most powerful aphrodisiac.

Spoilers: Everything up to and including "Crash and Burn"

Disclaimers: "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" and its characters belong to Jerry Bruckheimer, Paramount, CBS and lots of other people. I am none of those people.

Author's Notes: I'm very proud of this fic - it takes a special kind of dedication to write smut at work, while the girl in the next cubicle is playing gospel music and you sit next to a communal printer. I like to live on the edge. Special thank-you to Krista for inspiration, help with writing and help with editing. You rock - but the Braves still suck.

Musical Notes: The beginning excerpt is from Norah Jones' "Come Away With Me".

* * *

"I wanna wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof…while I'm safe there in your arms…so all I ask is for you, to come away with me, in the night."

I clicked the Tahoe's radio off as soon as the look on her face registered with me. I let Sara climb into the car in silence, trying to read in her gritted teeth and braced backbone what, exactly, had transpired after I left the precinct. When she let the hush cling to the air, I opened my mouth to speak, only to find I had no words. The best I could come up with was, "Got plans?" *You sound like a milk commercial.*

"Nope."

Her icy response probably should've deterred me, but one thing all my exes can agree on is that I have no sense of timing. When I should talk, I stay quiet, and when any reasonable person would keep their big mouth shut, I'm the one who has to fill the conversational gaps. "Wanna get a beer?"

Sara turned her head and the world slid into slow motion. Beneath the faint sheen of tears I pretended not to notice, her soul was raw and her disappointment visible in the umber depths, burnt almost beyond recognition. She pulled her eyes away from me and I was unsettled by her expression: a palpable ache, mingled with resolute strength. Her tone was jagged and husky when she commanded me in reply, "Drive."

Complying immediately, I guided the car into gear, but my doubts about my ability to read the elusive Miss Sidle drew my gaze back momentarily. I wondered if the inviting smirk was a figment of my imagination, or if her wry ghost of a smile had really been in response to my deliberately offhanded suggestion.

The sun, rich with robust reds and opaque oranges, was just starting its descent below the desert horizon as my foot pressed down on the gas pedal. I offered one last smile to Sara, hoping to nourish the courage I saw through the hue of her pain. Whatever had happened had crushed her in a way I had rarely seen; in three years of working with Sara, nothing but the obscene mistreatment of women had affected her this deeply.

She didn't seem interested in talking, and I wasn't inclined to advance my questions, as we drove without purpose, in the direction of the setting sun. "You, uh, have a bar in mind?" I asked, uncharacteristically nervous. I realize as I look back on that night that my nerves stemmed from an overabundance of knowledge; I knew going in what would happen, and I was nervous because I couldn't decide if it was the best decision I'd made in ages, or the worst. But, at the end of the day, it hadn't been my decision. It had been Sara's.

"Nope." Her retort was less caustic now, and our eyes met briefly. "You?"

"Not really. My place okay? Lindsey's at a slumber party tonight."

"Perfect."

There it was again – that smirk. Maybe she knew more than I gave her credit for, or maybe I was still fantasizing.

* * *

Catherine jiggled the key, cursing the resistant lock as it finally gave way and the door swung open. She stepped inside and shed her leather jacket, draping it over the entryway table. "You can drop your coat here," she told me, and I nodded dumbly, following her lead. Her voice was gentle, almost maternal, as she asked, "You want that beer now?"

I nodded again, following her to the kitchen. Sliding onto a bar stool, I leaned my elbows on the counter, watching Catherine's smooth movements around the little kitchen. I took a long look in either direction, absorbing my surroundings. Seventies avocado-green appliances, Formica countertops and naugahyde stools – not exactly what I'd expected from Catherine's house, although my quick scan of the living room had revealed more modern décor.

She turned around and saw the look on my face, and as she handed me my beer, Catherine shrugged. "Eddie and I didn't cook much," she explained. "Now, Lindsey usually eats at the baby-sitter's, and we go out on the weekends."

I pictured the take-out menus that, despite my best efforts, had migrated back to the front of my refrigerator, and I had to smile. At the moment, it felt tight, as if it didn't quite fit me, but I persisted, hoping the change in countenance would change my mood. "I'm on a first-name basis with every delivery guy in a ten-mile radius."

"So you're one of us. Cool." Catherine flashed a thousand-watt smile, hoping to cheer me up, I think. When my expression didn't change, she sighed softly. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really." I took a longer drink.

"You sure?"

"Yep." I raised my empty beer bottle. "Bartender?"

Catherine grinned, turning back to the fridge. "Coming right up."

* * *

The beer bottles were stacked three thick, and I was lying perpendicular to the couch, my bare feet flung over the back and my head hanging off the seat cushion in an effort to stop the room from spinning.

"You really want to know what happened?" I asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into my voice. I swung my head to the right, watching Catherine upside down and feeling the tip of my hair brush the carpet. At some point, without my noticing, she had changed out of her work outfit and into a pair of ruby-red, silk lounge pants and matching Chinese-print top. I admired the way her slender neck seemed to be poured into the mandarin collar, the cutout in the middle accentuating her cleavage – not that it needed help.

"If you're ready to tell me." She sipped her Jack and Coke, which had replaced the beer we'd finished about an hour before.

I shrugged half-heartedly. "I'm pissed off because I let him screw me, in every sense of the word."

"Hank?"

"Yes, *Hank*." I could finally say his name without feeling nauseous, thanks to the beer, which had made me nauseous itself. Oh, the irony.

Catherine looked at me curiously, her expression warning me that if she had to go back to the precinct to dust Hank's remains for my fingerprints, she'd be very upset. "What'd he do?"

"He did what men always do." I sighed, rolled on my side and slipped off the couch, ending in a squat on the floor. I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to breathe deeply. "I don't think Jack and Sam are getting along. I feel sick."

The maternal look was back as Catherine stood up and declared, "You need to eat something."

I shook my head "I don't think I can."

"You have to. It'll absorb some of the alcohol and settle your stomach." Catherine was insistent and I found myself nodding agreement. I wondered if she had this kind of power over Lindsey, and that's why the little girl was always so compliant.

Catherine strode into the kitchen and the only evidence of her inebriation that I saw was a slight waver in her walk. I took up my perch on the barstool, watching intently as she moved gracefully around the kitchen again, this time gathering food instead of alcohol. Catherine glanced at the clock and asked over her shoulder, "You still eat eggs, right?"

"Yeah, eggs are good."

"Toast?" Catherine asked, glancing at me as she held up a loaf of rye bread.

"Uhm...okay," I replied with a queasy smile.

I guess Catherine thought she could slip one past me. "Want to talk about Hank?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Maybe later. Nice try, though."

"Thanks." Her back faced me as Catherine dug in the fridge. "You're staring at me," she accused, turning in time to catch me staring.

"Yep." I grinned fully for the first time all night, feeling the hint of a smirk creeping into my smile.

"Why?" she asked easily. Catherine faced me, working on the counter between us, cracking eggs into a bowl.

The smirk was firmly in place now, and I replied, not a little saucily, "Because I can."

I'm sure Catherine could tell I was trying to keep her focus off the forbidden topic of Hank, but if she knew, she didn't say so. "Says who?"

"Oh, come off it, Cath." I stood abruptly, pushing the stool back with my foot and leaning on the countertop. "The little grin in the car? You invited me out for a beer, when we've spent maybe five minutes together outside work in three years. And then we end up at your house? I'm straight, not blind."

Catherine called my bluff, an amused grin quirking the corner of her mouth. "Well, if you're straight, honey, then you're in the wrong house, because the only thing I like straight is my bourbon." I worked my mouth for a minute, trying to find a reply, and when I had none, Catherine continued as if uninterrupted. "If I was flirting, then what were you doing?" she asked, pinning me with a knowing eye. "The sexy smirk was an accident?"

"The what?" I replied wittily.

"That smirk," Catherine tossed at me. "When I invited you out, you looked at me, and just…smirked. Like you knew exactly where I was going to take you, and didn't mind – hell, like *you'd* planned it. That smirk."

"That smirk? That was 'I hope Hank chokes on his Froot Loops'." I chuckled dryly, hoping she wouldn't hear the deceptive waver in my voice.

"Ouch." Catherine raised an eyebrow. "What'd he do, forget your anniversary?"

"Bastard's been cheating on his girlfriend with me."

"He what? Shit, Sara, why didn't you tell me?" Catherine was fuming, and I winced at her tone. It sounded as if all the anger she'd stored up from years of unchallenged abuse at Eddie's hands were coming out against my cheating bastard of an ex. "I'd gladly beat his ass."

"He's not worth the effort," I shrugged, lowering my eyes to the counter, suddenly interested in the pattern of lines on the Formica.

"But you are," Catherine said decisively, her pose matching my own, the eggs forgotten for the moment.

"Nah. So," I added, hoping to convey with my tone that the discussion was over, "that was somethin' with the kamikaze granny, huh?"

"I'm not Grissom."

"What?" I stared at her, confused.

"I can use words like 'feeling' and 'hurt'. You don't have to ignore it here." Allowing me a moment to digest that, Catherine picked up the bowl of eggs and turned to the stove, pouring them into the pan.

I listened to the sizzle of the eggs for a while. Trying not to think about what I was saying, for fear I'd actually acknowledge it, I stated firmly, "He's a pig. Just one more in what has thankfully been a fairly short line of pigs in my life."

"So what are you gonna do about it?" she asked, scraping the eggs out of the pan and onto two plates.

"I dumped him, obviously," I told her. "What else is there?"

"We could T.P. his house," Catherine suggested, watching me out of the corner of her eye.

I cracked up involuntarily. "I could have the techs fake a naked picture of him and post it on the Web," I volunteered laughingly, the alcohol suppressing any inhibitions my tongue still held.

Catherine giggled, sliding one of the plates onto the counter in front of me. "You could tell him he turned you into a lesbian. That's the best revenge, cuts 'em where it hurts – in the ego. Always worked for me."

"Yeah, but what if he asks about the sex?" I chuckled again, trying to imagine myself doing any of these things, and failing to see it happening.

"Two tongues, twenty fingers, lots of orgasms, no mess," Catherine ran down the list like it was groceries. My mouth must've fallen open in shock, because she shook her head. "Oh, come on. I was a stripper for ten years. We did shit backstage that would've made Hugh Heffner blush."

"Like what?" *Why're you suddenly so interested?* I asked myself.

Catherine seemed more surprised by my question than I had been by her story. I guess when you play the town prude long enough, people start to believe it. "Well…" she drawled, seeming hesitant to corrupt me. "There was one time…my first time, actually," Catherine said with a wistful smile. "Two girls I was dancing with at the time, Jenny and … what was her name? Lori, I think. We'd just finished a shift, and we went out for breakfast. We'd all had a few that night, and we ended up at Lori's apartment. Let's just say by the time Eddie found me, I was happier than he'd made me in years."

"Oh, come on." I rolled my eyes. "That's it? No details? Some friend you are." I took a bite of my eggs, hoping they'd settle my suddenly fluttering stomach.

"You want details?" Catherine challenged me, swallowing a bite of her breakfast. "Jenny had a tongue that moved so fast, it practically disappeared, and Lori was ambidextrous." She looked more than a little pleased as I choked on my toast. I took a deep breath, about to reply, when I stopped and sighed it out.

"What's wrong?" Catherine asked, suddenly concerned. She reached for my empty plate and laid it in the sink on top of hers.

"Nothing. Everything." I shrugged, offering my best smile. Catherine pinned me with a look and I knew she'd press this time, until she got an answer that satisfied her. "It just hit me what an ass I am." I blamed the alcohol for my suddenly despairing attitude.

She came around the counter and laid a hand on the small of my back. There's no way to explain the sudden rush of safety I felt, save to say that her touch calmed me immediately. "He's a pig," she reminded me in a motherly voice. "You're better off without him."

"I know," I agreed, feeling a knot develop in the center of my stomach. "I think I'm more angry than hurt. He used me, y'know?" I turned and looked at Catherine, our eyes meeting.

"I know," she echoed sympathetically. "I realize how clichéd this is going to sound, but I can't imagine anyone doing that to you purposely. I mean…" she trailed off.

"What do you mean?" I ventured.

"I mean," Catherine continued, seeming more sure of herself now, "I'd take one look at those big brown eyes, and that heartbroken expression," she gestured with her free hand toward my face, "and kill myself for whatever I'd done to hurt you." She laughed then, shaking her head. "Listen to me, a little liquor and I'm talkin' out my ass."

I shook my head, too. "No, it's…nice. It's been a long time since anyone's said anything like that. Hank was…well, he was one step up from Grissom on the communication scale."

"Would it be over the line if I said that was something I'd fix if I could?" Catherine's voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.

"But you can't," I replied, my throat tightening.

"No?" Catherine was watching me intently, waiting – it seemed – for me to make a move. I wonder which scared me more – that she was expecting it, or that I was trying to do it.

"No…" I drawled, the warmth of her hand palpable through my shirt. "Maybe?"

"Maybe. Maybe's a start." Catherine's smile was liquid amber, soft and translucent. One moment she seemed like she wanted to play mommy to my hurt child, and the next, the look in her eyes was positively hungry. Her hand still had not left my back, and I turned slightly to my left, so her arm was around my waist, and we were facing each other fully. I felt the circle of heat expanding slowly, from my back, to my waist, then suddenly my chest was constricting in the most pleasant way.

"Catherine?" I said quietly, reveling in the new sensations. It had been quite a while since I'd surprised myself.

"Yeah?" Her voice tilted on the end of the word, and I wondered if that was the cause of my sudden dizziness.

"What are we doing?" Knowing the answer, I rushed on. "This is - this is crazy."

Catherine shrugged, her eyes dancing. "We haven't done anything *yet*," she corrected me. "Nothing has to happen tonight." I nodded, suddenly very grateful to be drunk with the one person I knew wouldn't take advantage of that.

Catherine seemed to take my nod as agreement that the night should end, and she started to pull her arm from my waist. "No," I said unexpectedly, feeling the word like sandpaper in my throat. Capturing her hand, I drew it back and rested it on my left hip; in response, she raised her right hand to a matching position.

Still sitting on the stool, with Catherine's hands on my waist, I began to wonder who I was. Everything in me suddenly seemed unfamiliar, from the flush rising in my cheeks, to my pounding heart, right down to the warmth spreading through my stomach. Catherine tipped her head slightly and her strawberry blond hair fell across one eye. I reached up and brushed it away, tucking it behind her ear. "Thanks for taking my mind off...things," I murmured.

Catherine shrugged and smiled. "Whatever I can do."

* * *

"Whatever you can do?" Sara repeated, and I nodded. Wordlessly, she leaned toward me, and I heard the soft, deep breath she sucked in.

I met her halfway, pressing my lips to Sara's tenderly, mindful with my physical touch of the emotional bruises that would linger on her heart. Our first kiss was tentative, my fingers grasping her hips as I steadied myself against the effects of the alcohol I'd consumed. I waited for Sara to pull away, but to my satisfaction, she intensified the kiss, sliding her hands up to brace them on my shoulders.

Our mouths melded awkwardly at first. For a long time, with Eddie and the few men since him, I'd been entrenched in my feminine side, always playing the submissive. It really isn't like me, but in relationships, I did almost whatever it took to keep the other person happy – fear of being alone, I guess. At some point, I'd tired of it, and quit dating entirely. Now I remembered, as Sara melted beneath my mouth, what it felt like to be in control; I remembered how it felt to be wanted. I slipped my hands beneath the hem of her shirt, my fingertips barely brushing her skin as my hands met behind her. Sara stiffened and I stilled my hands on the small of her back, and she relaxed immediately. I edged closer, feeling the rough fabric of her jeans taut against the swishing fabric of my silk pants. Sara's hands slid down over my arms, and as her fingers tickled my skin, I smiled into her kiss.

She seemed to take this as encouragement, and settled her hands on my waist. I unhooked my fingers from each other, raising my arms to link them around her neck. Something told me Sara wouldn't enjoy having her hair played with as much as I did, so I stayed out of the burnished waves, despite very much wanting to run my fingers through them. I felt Sara's fingers hesitating at the nape of my neck and I nodded slightly, not enough to break the kiss. She slid her hands into my hair, pulling me up toward her mouth. One thumb began to stroke the soft spot behind my ear, and I lost it. The moan rumbled up from the very center of me, up through my throat and out of my mouth, getting trapped between my lips and Sara's tongue, which was tracing them earnestly.

I felt her smile against my mouth, but I was unprepared when she eased my head to one side, and her lips, soft as satin, caressed my neck. I moaned again when her tongue tickled the back of my ear, and my arms tightened around her neck. I had been aware of the tingling in my stomach for over an hour. Every time Sara smiled at me, or brushed against me, I'd felt the ache grow more insistent, but it wasn't until that moment that I realized the extent of her power over me. As her fingers played in my hair and Sara's tongue teased my neck, the wetness pooling in my center became unbearable. I would have given anything, literally anything, to feel her strong fingers gliding over me at that moment, taking me in any way she chose. Perhaps I wasn't as in control as I thought.

I didn't realize Sara had pulled away until I felt the cool air waft over my seared neck, burnt wherever her lips had touched. I opened my eyes in time to see her begin to speak. I shook my head quickly, resting a finger on her lips, already slightly swollen from our intense kissing. "Do you want to stop?" I whispered. Sara shook her head vehemently. "Then don't say a word." I returned my arms to her neck, drawing her back down to me. I wanted the next word off her lips to be my name, moaned in pleasure.

Our mouths met again and I thought the ache in me would certainly kill me if it weren't relieved, and soon. Sara seemed lost in the kiss, her hands unmoving on my waist, until I slid my hands off her neck and opened the first button on her shirt. Then it was as if I'd undone the handcuffs binding her, and Sara's fingers were darting over me, searching out the snap on the back of my blouse. I felt it give, and the fabric pooled over my breasts, a millimeter away from baring me completely. Sara reached out and innocently pushed it away, her smirk the only thing giving away her intentions.

I had been on stage hundreds, probably thousands, of times, always bare-breasted and often totally nude. But being shirtless before her feasting eyes was different. There was a reverence in Sara that I wasn't used to, that made me blush – not an easy feat. Her eyes traveled the length of me, and I suddenly felt that my silk bottoms might be transparent to her eager eyes One tentative hand rose to my breast, hesitating mid-air. Without thought, I reached out and took her hand, tugging it toward me. Her fingers cupped the swell of my breast, held within a red lace brassiere. I watched Sara's eyes as her thumb found my nipple, her intake of breath matching my own as it hardened under her touch. I reached behind me and unhooked my bra, letting it fall to the floor. One thing I have always been is extremely proud of my body, and despite the slight embarrassment I felt at Sara's intense scrutiny, that hadn't changed. Sara met my eyes and I smiled, giving her permission to explore the fantasies that everyone has, but which very few allow themselves to make real. As her mouth closed around the hardened nipple, I was ecstatic that we had both succumbed to our desires.

* * *

My tongue slipped out alone into unfamiliar territory. I took my time, learning my way around all of her curves. Catherine was still clothed from the waist down, and despite my burgeoning awareness of a singular, familiar ache inside, I was in no hurry to change that. She, on the other hand, seemed quite anxious to get me undressed. Her hands fumbled with my buttons and I grinned to myself, surprised that something about Catherine was anything less than a graceful dance. After a few false starts, she got the shirt off, and my inhibitions flared to life. I tried to speak again, but remembering her earlier reprimand, I kept quiet. The thought was like a ping-pong ball in my brain: do I want this? As Catherine squeezed my shoulders, moaning as my tongue stroked her skin, I found it was far too late to ask that question. My body was on auto-pilot, and whether I had intended to instigate something was no longer debatable. I *had* started something, and neither of us could stop until we'd seen it through.

I straightened, raising my head, and found her watching me. Feeling more audacious in that second than I think I ever had before, I slid between Catherine's thighs, pushing her legs apart with my knee. Slinging an arm around her waist, I felt her slightly smaller frame meld with mine, her legs giving way easily to my insistence. I staggered backward, stopping my tongue's exploration of Catherine's mouth long enough to locate the arm of the couch and land safely on it. I pulled her onto my lap, her strong dancer's legs steady on either side of me. Above me now, Catherine smiled down at me, kissing me harder and longer. I fell into the kiss, her mouth tasting of liquor and rye toast and something individually Catherine Willows. I wondered for a split second if Grissom had ever been where I was now, and then decided I didn't care. If he had, he was a fool to give up his seat, and it was finder's keepers.

I was still holding back, waiting for something – I didn't know what until Catherine murmured, "Sara?" Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled to keep them open.

"Yes?" I replied, breaking my silence. My voice sounded far too deep to be my own.

Catherine raised her eyebrows. "Do you know what comes next?"

I chuckled softly. "I think I can figure it out."

Her green eyes locked onto mine, and Catherine growled playfully, "Then for God's sake, do it before I explode."

* * *

After giving her the fifth orgasm, I leaned back on my heels, watching Sara shiver. She opened her eyes after a while and grinned shakily, her cheeks reddening. "No need to be embarrassed," I said, realizing how she must have felt. "You liked it."

"Yeah, I did." Her usually husky voice was an octave lower, laced with gravel as she grinned down at me.

"So, what do you wanna do now?" I asked, with a smile. The alcohol would be wearing off, I knew, and Sara might regret what we'd just done.

"You're the expert. What's next?"

I grinned and shrugged. "I could show you the bedroom."

Sara stood, glancing down only briefly as she realized she was bared to my roving eyes. Raising her eyes defiantly, she nodded. "Hope I like it as much as the living room."

THE END


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